Say if the mourners sought,
In these rich images of summer mirth,
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought
Of our last hour on earth?
Ye have no voice, no sound,
Ye flutes and lyres! to tell me what I seek:
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown’d,
Yet to my soul ye speak.
Alas! for those that lay
Down in the dust without their hope of old!